


The Postcard

by eatyourwords



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humor, M/M, all tied up in a neat little bow, sexual identity crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatyourwords/pseuds/eatyourwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins in Paris but starts on a train as two boys bond via postcard in ways they couldn't imagine.</p><p>Otherwise known as the one where the universe has to make Larry happen somehow, so it might as well be by postcard.</p><p>EDIT: NOW ON HIATUS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> A few quick words:
> 
> First off, thanks for checking out my first Larry fic (also my first on AO3) which leads into point number two: sorry for any errors in format or otherwise. I did this beta-less, so any suggestions or corrections in the comments are welcome and appreciated. (Hint hint: feel free to leave a comment even if you find the fic faultless. I'd love to hear about that too ;) ) I've never been to France or ridden in a train, so it's safe to say I took some artistic liberties on this one. I apologize, but I hope any faults won't be horrifyingly obvious. 
> 
> Alright, spoiler alert: I neither own nor am associated with One Direction or any relating parties. If you got here by googling your band, yourself, or someone you know personally, it's best for both you and me that you click out of this window and never return. Really.
> 
> Happy reading!

Had it been up Harry to start the whole thing, there might have been some profound meaning behind the hidden postcard, but much like the rest of the important events in Louis's life, the idea sprung from a whim.

Trying out for the school football team, auditioning for Grease, asking out his first girlfriend, they all started with a misplaced thought, a twinkle of the eye, and a smirking shrug. So why wouldn't Louis's greatest adventure be rooted in the same sort of spontaneous idea that landed him the captain's spot, the lead in Grease, and the very first of his sexual escapades?

It was Louis Tomlinson to the core, and it all fit.

Not to say that Harry didn't have an equally important role in all of this.

You see, it takes a certain kind of person to notice a postcard wedged in the seat of a train, the same postcard forty odd people had sat next to and contentedly ignored. It takes a certain kind of person to pluck it up and flip it over and absorb the words scrawled there. It takes a certain kind of person to appreciate it for what it is and feel compelled to respond. As a matter of fact, it takes a Harry Styles kind of person to compliment a Louis Tomlinson sort of person.

That's what it boils down to, after all: their story cannot be replicated because it simply wouldn't work any other way. The foundations are rooted so firmly in them being exactly who they are that any other pairing is nearly inconceivable. Sure, people meet through all sorts of odd circumstances all the time, but their story --their _love_ story-- is one in a million.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here, aren't I?

All stories start somewhere, and theirs just so happens to start in Paris on the tail end of a very different love story.

A girl and a boy (like many other couples before and since) lean against the railing of the Eiffel Tower and look out over the City of Love.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The boy smiles over at the girl the same smile that tugged the pair to this moment, and the girl's heart sinks in her chest as she realizes she's about to cause the ruin of that smile.

"Louis," she begins, and it's in the same demure tone that drew him to her, but this time, it's tinged with an anxiousness that makes him stand up straighter and properly look at the girl he claims he loves.

"Are you getting cold? We can head down if you..." he trails off as she's shaking her head at him.

"Lou, I think it's time we stop this," she murmurs with a twist of her scarf.

"Stop this? As in... us?"

"Yes," she supplies, "as in break up."

"We're in Paris, El," he says because it's the only thought sticking in his head. Not _no._  Not _stop._ Not _this can't be happening._ Just _I can't believe I'm being dumped in Paris on the Eiffel Tower. Of all the places._

"I'm sorry, but I..." she bites her lip, unsure of how to broach the growing hollowness of their relationship. They had steadfastly ignored it so well before.

"Couldn't've waited until we got home?" He looks out over the city and tugs a hand through his hair. Louis's not dumb. He knew this had been in the cards for a while, and while he may not be objecting to the break up itself, the view isn't so breathtaking now that she's gone and ruined his Paris afternoon.

"I wanted to meet up with Perrie tomorrow for shopping..." She trails off again, and a flicker of annoyance flairs in his gut, but not quite for the right reason. Had she always left her sentences dangling this much?

"And wanted me out of the way. Roger that," Louis fills in. He's not angry. Really. He's not, even as he pushes away from the edge and away from his now ex-girlfriend. He's just upset because the buried romantic in him craved the entire romance, head over heals thing with Eleanor, and this is just the cherry on top of that disappointment.

"Lou--" Even now, worrying her lip between her teeth, she's beautiful, and Louis is reminded of what he will be missing.

"Save it, El. I trust you can make it back safely?" She nods a bit dumbly. "Good. See ya around, love." The last word doesn't burn on it's way out like Louis expects. He says it enough (to his mum, to his sisters, to perfect strangers on the street) that the term of endearment fits even in the wake of their breakup, but Eleanor flinches, not sharing the sentiment.

When he's down on the streets below, his hands don't feel empty in the absence of her delicate hand. Instead, they swing with newfound enthusiasm as freedom sprarks in his fingertips. Along the cobbled streets, Louis stops and chatters a bit with some street vendors in the little French he knows, and he manages to charm the Parisians, the snobby stereotype not a match for his inborn charisma.

He ends up taking extra time where he knows Eleanor would've tugged him away already to look at that satchel or those sunglasses. He breathes in the crisp air, a buoyancy in his lungs that comes with being completely on your own and not being rushed to suit someone else's time table. He smiles freely at men, women, and children alike on the street because he can, and there's no one to prod his shoulder and distract him from the moment.

He begins to wonder if a part of him always resented Eleanor or if it's only just manifested itself because he's allowed to feel that resentment now. He shrugs off the thought with an adjustment his overnight satchel and picks up some authentic Parisian street corner nourishment. With a bite, he ambles in the vague direction of the train station he came from this morning.

It's only when he's passing a park a block or two from the station that he recalls the packet of postcards tucked away in his bag. Five-card pack had caught his eye when he and Eleanor first arrived, the wideshots of Parisian landmarks were standard by postcard standards, but he was playing tourist with his longtime girlfriend, he could afford to keep up the stereotype, and so he plopped them infront of the cashier.

Now, his hands twitch in want of pulling them out, but he exercises patience until after he's on board. He'll appreciate the distraction without anyone to keep him company on the long journey ahead this time around.

The first postcard of the five is, of course, the Eiffel tower, which Louis bypasses with a grimace, not wanting to attach any memories to that particular landmark.

Instead, he begins with the Lourve addressed to the twins as one (for simplicity's sake) and works his way up from youngest to oldest, keeping the messages silly, already picturing their giggling faces. He signs Georgia's last with a bit of an extra flourish. (She's just as much of a sister even if it's not quite the same. He truly tries to make up for any divide any place he can.)

His gaze falls back on the tower beside him, and with a tilt of his head, half an idea forms, and before he thinks anything through, the postcard has been tattooed with a greeting and a return address out of habit from the previous four.

He stares at it a bit, wondering how he can deliver this without having to chose a name from the phone book. He pointedly ignores the probable foolishness of putting his address down for someone he hasn't met, but it's not like he can cross the address out without ruining the postcard, so he leaves it and slides the postcard with a twitch of a smirk into the little crack between the seat and the wall, taking care to leave a little corner poking up for a stranger's eyes.

Satisfied with the arrangement, he checks the time, and there's still enough of it for him to get a decent nap in, so he closes his eyes and drifts off with a smile quirking his lips.

\---

Harry wishes for a moment that he'd have brought his headphones or a book. The train home from his aunt's house is always longer than he expects, and he really needs something more more than his doodle notebook to occupy his time on the long journey home. Instead, he's left observing his fellow train mates with an absent pen tracing random doodles as he concocts histories for the people around him.

Somewhere between a Belgian couple arguing loudly (over what to do with the mansion they inherited from his great-uncle, he imagines. The man wants to retire there, and she wants to start an orphanage) and an odd old man bobbing his head to music only he can hear (he's a spy, and he's making himself appear not up to conversation, so he can develop his course of action in peace), Harry's eyes catch on a bit of maroon and navy peaking out of the gap next to his seat.

He doesn't think much on it, only mildly frowning, wondering absentmindedly why people insist on shoving garbage out of sight --poorly too-- instead of tossing it out like a reasonable human being. It's sometime later when he tires of his mental game but not yet ready to resign himself to staring out at the scenery, that his fingernails scrape on the paper edge. Curiosity and boredom and an itch in his fingertips dictate that he pull it out and examine it.

The maroon and navy prove to be the border of a typical Eiffel Tower postcard. The picture is still glossy, and the corners are hardly bent, and Harry muses, much like he had with the passengers, that on the train's last trip to Paris, a thirty something year old man bought the postcard to send to an ex-lover. He was lonely and missing her, but the thought of sending it hurt him too much, and even if he wanted to, he had no way of finding the right words to say, much less getting it to the right address, so he tucked it there, between the seat and the wall, hoping inspiration may come to him yet. It never did, and so the man never thought of the postcard again.

Of course, when Harry flips it over, that is not what he finds.

_Greetings Stranger,_   
_I just got dumped atop the Eiffel Tower. Funny, that. Here's hoping this postcard brings you more luck in love than it's brought me._   
_xx,_   
_L_   
_P.S. Hope I wasn't too forward with the kisses. I'm sure you're lovely, and even if you're not, we all need some extra loving now and then, don't we? ;)_

The words light a smile on Harry's lips, and he glances up around him, as if everyone else in the car should be experiencing the same rush of inconsequential happiness that he is. Nothing's changed though, apart from the doe eyes locking with his from across the car.

Their owner reflects his smile back to him. Hey, maybe the postcard did bring some luck in love after all. The train ride is too short for the two to properly hook up, but he snags a kiss on the cheek and a number written daintily in sharpie, so he considers himself pretty lucky.

On his bus ride home in Holmes Chapel, Harry writes a cheeky return letter and sends it off to an address in Doncaster with a warm fizz in his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise a timeline on when this will be updated, but I'm rather fond of the idea, and I've been known to write while I procrastinate on school work, and I procrastinate a lot, so you shouldn't be kept waiting for months and months.
> 
> I tried to make this opener as long as possible, but it serves its purpose in setting up the story. Coming updates should be longer and more engaging.
> 
> 'Til next time!


	2. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters are received. Other things happen too. (Kind of.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the positive feedback on the first chapter, guys! It really means a lot.
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this. I meant to have this up two days ago, but the draft didn't save properly. (Pretty much sums up my love/hate relationship with technology, actually.)
> 
> Anyhow, I had to rewrite a good portion and ended up adding on a bit more than I originally intended. Hope it's worth the wait!

For exactly two hours each day, the eldest of the Tomlinson siblings revel in the quiet of an empty house before the pattering and squeals of their baby sisters fill up every hall. It had become an unspoken rule that as few words as possible would be exchanged as Louis let the dog outside and Lottie retrieved the mail. For those two hours, the pair let themselves decompress from the stress of school and ready themselves for the upcoming insanity of family life.

As loud and hyper as Louis is, he never needs much to relax.

Usually, he'd allow himself fifteen minutes of staring at the ceiling or belting out one of his favorite tunes (depending on how rough a day he'd had) before resigning himself to the pile of homework that dictated his life or bolting out the door to make sure he got to wherever he was needed whether it was practice or rehearsal or some place his girlfriend wanted to meet up, he was always hurrying off to make sure being reprimanded for being dreadfully late.

_Tap tap._

_"_ Lou?" A voice floats into the room. Louis breaks his gaze away from the speckled celing to find his sister loitering in the doorway.

It had been one of the rougher days.

"Yeah, Lotts?" he asks, sitting up in bed.

"Have you started going by L?" She fiddles with something in her hands.

"Like the girls name?" Louis's eyebrows knit in confusion. He knew he was a bit strange, but he's not one to up and change his name--

"No, like the letter," she holds an envelope in front of her. "If I knew anyone from Cheshire, I'd've thought it was for me."

"Cheshire, you said? L? I don't know..." he trails off, a hopeful thought suddenly clicking into place. "...why they would've addressed it as such. Hand over the goods." He saunters over, making grabby hands at his eldest sibling.

"Aw, have you gotten a pen pal without me?" Lottie clucks at his overeagerness, cheekily keeping it just out of reach before he snatches it from her hands. "No need to get your knickers in a twist, Tommo."

"Shove off, Lottie-girl," he shouts playfully before shutting the door behind him.

It's not that Louis had forgotten about his little act of spontaneity per se. Rather, he'd obstinately denied himself of hoping for any sort of acknolwedgement. Chances are one of the train keepers (he only assumed that someone's job was to keep the train orderly) saw the postcard and threw it away without thought. It's not as if Louis had really invested much himself in the postcard. It was just a sentence or two long and not really worthy of a response even if someone had bothered to read it.

If he feels a bit lonely now that there isn't a beautiful girl to occupy his time, the universe is a far cry from required to magick a new companion into existence just to keep him entertained. He may not always have the best personality, but he hasn't achieved that level of self-importance just yet.

So when Louis registers that this mystery letter from Cheshire is addressed to the identifier Louis had signed off with, in short, he's gobsmacked. Even if he wasn't altogether successful in tamping down the vague hope for a response, he would never have expected a response in three days.  _Three days._

The shock evaporates quickly, and excitement bubbles over into his bloodstream.

With two eager tears at the envelope, Louis tugs a plain white piece of paper in front of his eyes. Glancing quickly at the door to assure that it is indeed closed, he begins to read.

_Dear L,_

_Sorry to hear about the break up, mate, but my guess is that you're better off without the sort of person who'd end it on the Eiffel Tower. Tainting the great landmark of love? I'm surprised it's not against Parisian law._

_If it's any consolation, I managed to pull a number after reading your postcard. Hope it wasn't all your luck, but just in case, here's me sending a bit back your way. Not all of it, wouldn't want to leave myself completely void, but you deserve it after what I am building up in my head as a nightmare of a relationship._

_Ah, fuck. I'm now staring at this empty page cursing myself for not writing this on a smaller piece of paper. Alright, let's have story time while we're here. It might cheer you up, and if not, hey, you only have yourself to blame for this one. You're the idiot who put down a return address on a postcard to no one. ;)_

_Once upon a time, there was a boy. Let's call him Barry. Barry is very, very comfortable in who he is and who he is attracted to. His mother, while supportive, seems to be under the notion that he calls himself pansexual because he cannot decide between genders or doesn't want to be known as the 'bi kid'. Instead of talking about it over tea, like any reasonable mother would, she sends Barry off to visit his crazy lesbian aunt out in the countryside where said crazy lesbian aunt recalls her lesbian phase in college that turned out not to be very much of a phase after all._

_Mind you, the conversation is not entirely unpleasant (funny as hell if anything), but crazy lesbian aunt goes on to offer her "connections" if Barry should ever be "in need" of extra "money" for "school." (Quotation marks provided by aunt via gesture.) On his way home from that potentially emotionally scarring conversation, Barry finds a peculiar card on a train. Barry writes back and tells a poor stranger in hopes that the ordeal will be taken permanently from his memory, and he never has to wonder again if his aunt offered a position as a drug dealer._

_(Barry has much too pretty of a face to be a drug dealer.)_

_Alright, my enviornmental conscience is sufficiently appeased at the length of this._

~~_Til next time,  
If there is a next time,_ ~~

_Cheers,_

_H_

_  
_Louis takes a breath and reads the words again without the rush.

He only pauses a moment before he's springing off the bed in search of that stationary set great aunt Tallulah gave him a few Christmases back. By the time he's found it, (sandwiched between an old footbal jersey and a battered box of Monopoly, of all things) the  _needneedneed_ to reply right that very second has trickled down to a pleasant hum as he weighs the situation.

He takes the time to consider leaving the message unresponded but more in the same fashion that a little kid considers not eating that piece of chocolate cake. Others (silly adults, Louis rolls his eyes) would pass up the cake, but he is  _hungry_ , and there is no good reason not to shovel chocolate goodness into his face and devour every crumb while it is set before him.

With that in mind, he pulls the stack of paper before him and begins to write for better or for worse.

(When he finishes sometime later, folding the paper with a mental note to send it off in the morning, a warmth in his veins tells him it's for the better, and Louis believes it.)

\---

"Is that new?" Harry startles, turning away from the drawer he was rucking in. 

His friend Niall is leaning over Harry's desk peering at the corkboard where a collection of ticket stubs, pictures, and random momentos are pinned. The object in question, however, makes Harry's neck burn. Of course, Niall, his beloved but 100% oblivious Irish friend would discover his detective skills today. It hadn't yet been a full day since Harry thought,  _fuck it,_ and pinned the thing up with the rest of his treasures.

"Oh, that? Yeah, I suppose," he turns back to his sock drawer because he's sure he has grey socks that don't fit as weirdly as the ones currently adorning his feet.

A flutter of paper reaches Harry's ears just a moment before a snort does. Harry deliberately does not turn around or tense or pause like he wants to because if he shows even the slightest bit of agitation the irishman will--

"Some postcard!" he guffaws.

\--make a big deal out of it. Harry doesn't hide anything. His preferred nudity is only a physical manifestation of the trait, but he still hasn't received a reply from the Doncaster stranger. It doesn't smart, but it makes any possible explanation feel... wrong. 

"Yeah," Harry says as opposed to nothing, triumphantly fishing out the socks. "You ready to head out?" Niall shrugs, blessedly dropping the subject, before dancing out the door calling lilting goodbyes to Anne and Gemma with the postcard depostited on the table.

Harry's halfway out the door before turns around and repins the card with a slight frown. He stares at the image for a moment before following his friend out.

"Take the left, mate."

"But then we're--"

"Take it."

"The cinema," the curly haired one states plainly as he pulls in. He turns off the car and looks over at his blushing companion. "Niall Horan, partier extraordianaire,  _chosing_ to go to the movies on a Friday night over the gathering I  _know_ he knows about that's going on over at Crystal's."

"The food's much better selection 'ere," he chirps before hopping out of the car. When they stroll in, Harry still has a suspicious eye on his mate. The boy keeps fidgeting, which really isn't _so_ strange, but Niall rewards his observation skills by blushing two shades darker when they're within eyesight of the food counter.

"Right, the _food_ certainly does have a better selection here," Harry intones lowly.

"Bugger off," the blonde says cheerily, but his eyes don't stray from the girl behind the counter. She's pretty, Harry admits, but it's hard to acknowledge more than that when Niall is staring her like she's a buffet table that just offered to deepthroat him. (The simile would sit oddly for anyone else, but it's Niall, and blowies and endless food are all he could ever want in life.)

"Back so soon?" the girl giggles, and Niall titters in response. Harry takes that as his cue to find a seat in the theater. He's been to the movies before with Niall and doesn't care to waste 15 minutes again while Niall mulls over snack decisions, (and that was with an overweight, profusely sweating man behind the counter, no less.)

The theater's not very crowded yet, but ads and trivia are keeping the viewers occupied. _Matthew Mcconaughey...Titanic....Friends_ , Harry answers lazily, idly wondering if the Irishman would actually miss the movie in favor of chatting up a bird.

Niall drops down into the seat next to him the split second before the lights dim and the first previews play.

"Good timing," the curly haired one comments, amusedly taking in the way his friend is stuffing his mouth with what appears to be popcorn. 

It's a common enough sight, and when the Irish lad doesn't respond more than a grunt and bob of the head, Harry turns back easily to the screen.

A few minutes later, though, he can't resist.

"Snag her number?" Harry inquires cheekily, eyes not straying from action-packed trailer in front of him.

"Maybe. Maybe not." At that, he looks over to find the boy with a grin curling on his lips.

"Didn't know there could be a grey area on that one."

"I'd say a navy blue area, eh?" Niall beams and holds up a napkin with blue digits scrawled across it.

"You dog, you."

"What can I say? Love is in the air." Harry chuckles, switching focus back. A wideshot of the Eiffel Tower pans across, and it's all Harry can do not to snort.

The damn postcard just might be lucky for love after all.

\---

It's the morning, and it's early by teenage standards, so Harry considers himself deserving of a freshly roasted cup of coffee after listening to Niall talk about this girl for two hours straight after the movie.

"Harry?"

"Yeah, Mum?" he calls back into the living room, midpour.

"Could you be a dear and fetch the mail off the counter? I forgot  grab it before I sat down." Harry nods, stirring in his cream and sugar before realizing she couldn't possibly see it from her vantage point.

"Sure," he says easily, thumming through the stack easily out of habit. He damn well knows he never gets anything, and he shouldn't be expecting anything. It's been a few days by now for Pete's sake, and-- Oh.

"Something the matter, darling?" Anne questions, and he looks up with wide eyes at his mum and sister before shaking his head and tucking something neatly out of sight.

"Nope," he says, popping the 'p' before shoving the stack into her outstretched hand and scuttling out of sight.

"That was weird, wasn't it?" Genna inquires staring curiously after her younger brother.

"I can hear you, you know," Harry's voice carries in from the hall. Anne ignores it in favor of patting her daughter's hand.

"I'm glad you're the one to've said it."

"Boys," Gemma mutters. Anne repeats it in agreeance, and they both return their attention to the Saturday morning telly.

In his room, a smile is already alight on Harry's face as he struggles momentarily to slip the folded letter from its confines.

Harry huffs out a breath when he's successful and dives in eagerly.

_Now H, I am a firm believer in honesty, so I'm going to say straight off that I'm more than a bit envious at those loops on that H of yours. (May or may not have practiced my signitature before writing this, but I'll admit to nothing. ;))_

_It occurred to me while reading your letter that you had next to nothing to work off of for an audience. Normally, I'd rib you for swearing (I could've been a delicate old woman in her first relationship in twenty years, and you swore and called me an idiot !!) but this is our first proper correspondence, after all, and there are more important things that must be discussed. One such being the fact that drug dealer is only one of many, many options your aunt might be alluding to. Stripper, prostitute, and assassin are just three coming to me right now. Your scope is woefully limited, my friend, but I suppose that's only expected with that (supposedly) pretty mug of yours._

_While I do enjoy good old fashioned anonymity, if we're really doing, (we are, aren't we?) we might as well get some preliminaries out of the way. I am indeed not a delicate old woman. I'm a uni student (read: young and poor) studying to be a drama teacher (read: obnoxious, young, and destined to be poor 'til kingdom come.) Male. Red. Dogs. Boxers. (as opposed to briefs, not the breed, but I've always thought they got a bad rep, boxers.) That should be enough for now, eh? Wouldn't want to reveal all my secrets on the first go, now would we?_

_In appreciation for your story and to dispel some of your 'nightmare relationship' thoughts, I've got a story of my own to demonstrate that I've still got some fond memories to look back on from that relationship._

_Alright, so I live with my four sisters, and I am a bit of a self-professed prankster, probably a piss poor role model for them, but thankfully, (or ashamedly, now that I think on it) I've only managed to corrupt one of them, and let's just say the corrupt one doesn't have very high opinions of my ex. Being the cheeky devil that she is, my sister nicked a toad from the garden and stuck in the girlfriend's winter hat. Just so you get a proper picture, the girl's a bit of a delicate flower, but I swear the entire neighborhood heard that scream. The story doesn't end there, oh no. My sister proceeded to slip one of those sound gadgets into her purse. The thing made a tiny ribbit every twenty minutes, and the ex somehow didn't appreciate it very much. Don't know how I managed to play the good boyfriend when I was fighting to keep from collapsing on the floor with laughter, but somehow, I did it. Straight of of a family flick, I swear. Good memory, that one was._

_Damn, I've nearly ran out of room, haven't I?_

_'Til next time, (I am an optimist about this thing unlike some writers I know. Cough cough.)_

_L_

_P.S. Your letter didn't work. Went to go charm a girl, and she barely gave me a glance. Send a bit more luck next time? ;)_

_  
_Harry tries swallowing down his smile before venturying out of his room for pen and paper, but if he fails, Gemma and Anne don't comment.

They do, however, exchange a glance behind his turned back and give a simultaneous shake of their heads.

"Boys."

And really, that's all that needs to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite sure if I'm content with how I ended the chapter but wanted to have it posted tonight.
> 
> Feedback is always, always welcome. :)


End file.
